


He's a Troublemaker

by néohs (bangin_patchouli)



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories, Fantasy, Hair Brushing, M/M, Magic, Magic-Users, Magician/Sorcerer Hisoka, Pet Names, Romantic Angst, Royalty, but thats the only angst, hisoka is a criminal but whats new, hisoka is very romantic, i think thats all, its very romantic, prince illumi, this is basically a fuck you from illumi to his dad, those particular hisoillu Things, which is a bit ooc but thats it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 17:04:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18782461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bangin_patchouli/pseuds/n%C3%A9ohs
Summary: “Why aren’t you stealing anymore?”Vibrations rumble from Hisoka’s throat to Illumi’s ears when he laughs, as if it suffices as an answer.“I am stealing, just not from you,” Hisoka says, punctuating his sentence with a kiss to Illumi’s forehead. When Illumi frowns, Hisoka laughs, but Illumi can't stop thinking about why Hisoka keeps coming back to him.





	He's a Troublemaker

**Author's Note:**

> alright folks! I know this is s disagreeable pairing because Hisoka sucks (I know that he does, don't worry), so sorry if you had faith in that I might be a redeemable person! as some people might be familiar with a sekai fic I did (with the hitman and the arsonist) as my final project two years ago, aaand id like to say that this is the exact same thing. I wrote this for class as my final project, so its not as explicit or drawn out as it would have been otherwise. it also seems rather rushed toward the end, so I apologize! there was a deadline, you know how that goes, but I still think that this is worthy of an upload!
> 
> so thank you so much if you opened up this fic, it means the world to me, I hope you enjoy it! let me know if you did in the comments, or even if you didn't lol.

      Illumi is almost always being ignored. Illumi is only  _ not  _ being ignored if he's causing trouble. Therefore, Illumi is somewhat of a troublemaker, in the most passive of ways. It isn't that he minds being ignored, not too much anyway. Just that the rush of being in trouble beats the peace of being alone. Some of the time. Some of the time, now, is not tonight, and Illumi is enjoying looking out his window in silence. 

      Until some switch flips in his mind and he hears the shifting of the door against the stone floor in the room next to his.

      As a prince, albeit the middle of five, in a kingdom that could care less for him as long as he’s quiet and pretty, Illumi should not take direct action. In lieu, he should call a guard to investigate the sound. It could be an intruder, after all, and should he get caught up in the trouble, who knows how his father would react?

      So, naturally, Illumi sets down the mirror, rimmed in gold and cradling his hazy reflection, upon the window sill and wanders out into the hallway. 

      The stone is uncomfortably cold beneath his bare feet, and the dark violet lengths of his night skirts brush lightly against, are almost trapped between his legs as he walks. Leisurely, he ghosts long, elegant fingers against the wall, feeling the friction tingle on his skin, and a sound like metal jangling and wood creaking rises gradually as he nears the study’s quarters.

      Illumi feels no fear, not a drop of apprehension as he halts before the door cracked ajar, and with the tips of his fingers, he pushes the oak forward into the room. 

      Moonlight shines in shards of glass over the cluttered room, catching on color wheels of gems and shimmers of gold and silver in chests sealed partially with outlawed sorcery, but all Illumi can see is a head of red, skin as white, nearly grey, as a corpse, and the air as it seems to permeate into an almost sickly purple. 

      The figure turns slowly, and Illumi is met with a face decorated in women’s paint, blue and red, and slyer than the devil if he were to be handsome. The man has red, a  _ vibrant _ burgundy, curls that hang in lengthy rivulets down to the nape of his neck, a cutting smile sharper than any knife Illumi’s ever seen – it matches the rest of his icy features –, and amethystine flames of magic burning at the tips of his sharp-nailed fingers.

      “Oh, it’s you,” the intruder says calmly, and Illumi is shocked when his voice, smooth and throaty, feels like an arrow piercing into his chest. The intruder straightens, takes a silent step toward Illumi in the open doorway, and Illumi turns anything he feels over in response to the most intense, unable to be placed sense of familiarity. He does not say,  _ who are you? _ , nor does he say,  _ what are you doing here? _ , for those statements merely strike him as unnecessary. They don’t need an answer because Illumi doesn’t care; his heart is racing in the shadow of the silhouette braced by moonlight. 

      “You don’t think I pose a threat?” Illumi counters, and realizes suddenly that the window is wide open when a gust of freezing wind invades the room and whips his long, heavy midnight colored hair around him like a hurricane. Goosebumps rise on his bare skin, but the dagger concealed in the tight waist of his skirts feels warm. The rush he gets when the magician takes another insidious step toward him is even warmer, and Illumi has never wanted to be in trouble more than he does now. 

      “No,” the intruder hums,” I know that you do.”

      Illumi isn't a dunce, he knows that the man is feigning  _ something _ , but Illumi is so unsure  _ what  _ that is;the blazing look flickering in the man’s chaotic amber eyes tells him that it might be  _ everything _ , and that this man is definitely crazy, and probably a liar.

      “You’re a liar,” Illumi says. Everything feels just like déjà-vu, like the familiarity is tangible. 

      The stranger lowers his hands, and the magic dissipates with the swift movement. He advances yet again, and against Illumi’s will, his own hand seeks quietly the hilt of the dagger at his back. 

      “Ah, so I am,” the sorcerer murmurs, all of a sudden just as close as Illumi didn’t realize he had wanted him to be. Illumi’s body moves of its own accord, loosening the blade and pressing it against the man’s exposed neck in a white snap. He watches as a single drop of scarlet emerges from the pallid skin there and trickles down the length of the blade. Illumi fixes his eyes blankly to the man’s, and wonders halfheartedly why he’s smiling that sharp smile. 

      “How rude of me,” the intruder exclaims, hands raised flippantly up in expression. “Hisoka Morow, criminal magician of the East, the West, the South, and if my plans proceed accordingly, the North soon as well.”

      “Hisoka,” Illumi repeats. It sounds as if this name has left his mouth before, but he’s almost certain that it hasn’t. He knows no one by this name.

      “ _ No _ , your Highness, that’s  _ me _ ,” Hisoka corrects him, long hand coming so  _ brazenly _ to shift some of Illumi’s hair behind his shoulder, his touch lingering in shocks of electricity on Illumi’s skin. “You’re Illumi Zoldyck, third prince of Silva. You should know this, are you feeling okay?”

      Illumi finds himself slightly agitated at the sarcastic remark, but says nothing of it and instead asks,

      “How do you know that?”

      Hisoka’s smile looks almost like a silent snarl. 

      “My darling,” he whispers, leaning in close, too close for Illumi to see him clearly, and Illumi wonders why he’s allowing this. He holds his breath, and Hisoka continues, “everyone knows that. Are you not aware that you’ve singlehandedly put princesses out of marriages, their princes in hopes of acquiring you?”

      Illumi was not. He also was not aware that he had unconsciously lowered his blade until Hisoka was verging away, wiping at the blood on his neck. 

      “Anyway, I’m terribly afraid that it’s nearing my time to go,” Hisoka frets before letting his façade fall and latching his gaze onto Illumi again. “After all, I’ve found was I was looking for.”

      Illumi’s chest sparks when Hisoka raises the hand that he had been hiding. In between two fingers and his thumb, he holds an ebony gemstone.

      “That’s just a chunk of black tourmaline,” Illumi tells him, suddenly confused by everything, and Hisoka just smiles. Illumi hadn’t even noticed that he’d stopped. 

      “I know what it is,” Hisoka taunts, and stalks a slow circle around Illumi. Illumi doesn’t move, doesn’t know why he doesn’t, and shivers run down his spine like ice when Hisoka grazes an invasive hand against Illumi’s waist and plants a chilling ghost of a kiss to Illumi’s pearly cheekbone. 

      In another instant, before Illumi’s found a chance to collect the tornado of emotions swirling in his chest and pack them into a reaction, Hisoka is perched on the window sill, soaked in moonlight. 

      He looks somewhat like a deity in that light, all fine lines, defined and poised, poised to  _ jump _ , as if the four story drop won’t instantly kill him. But he’s smiling at Illumi like he can fly – hell, maybe he  _ can _ – and Illumi stands still. He’s never felt this clueless, and he scowls at how out of character he feels. 

      “Do me a favor,” Hisoka says, breaking into Illumi’s thoughts, “take a look in the mirror for me.”

      And then he’s gone. Illumi hears no thud on the ground, but he doesn’t move to peer out the window. His breath is still in his lungs, his hand is loose around the warm handle of his dagger, and the image of Hisoka is seared into his retinas. 

      Instead, he hears footsteps clatter down the hall and stop at the doorway to this room, right behind Illumi. He turns, composed, and glances over the couple of guards in   their metal frenzy. 

      “Prince Illumi, is everything okay? Did something happen?” one asks. Illumi feels the adrenaline in his chest pulsate. 

      “Why are you asking?” He retorts, and he’s feigned ignorance so many times that they don’t doubt him for a moment. He tilts his head to the side, puts a hand on his hip, and thinks of Hisoka kissing his cheek. 

      “We were notified by the ward panel that someone had entered this room,” the other one says, confidence dwindling under Illumi’s stare. 

      “Other than you, your Highness,” the former guard catches the other’s mistake. 

      “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Illumi brushes them off, and thinks of Hisoka jumping from the open window. 

      “Close that window, will you?” Illumi says, twisting his hair over to one side and pushing past the guards into the hall. “It’s letting in the draft.”

****

      Back in his own room, before the intricate, grandiose mirror, Illumi looks at himself, unsure as to why he’s doing Hisoka this odd favor. He puts a single finger to his cheek below his eye and pulls down slightly. His eyes, black as night and blank as parchment, reflect the rock of tourmaline pinched between Hisoka’s fingers.

      Illumi goes to sleep swathed partially in his night skirts atop his made bed, holding himself, staring up at the ceiling, and thinking of the stranger and his cold, cold lips. 

—

      The next time Hisoka breaks in, it’s at sunset. Illumi is gazing out his window again, this time at the swirling, impossible colors of the setting sun painted hazily onto the horizon. The red, tinted in purple toward the edges, reminds Illumi of a certain head of hair he’d seen not but two nights ago, but when he looks down to the stone sill, he starts, eyes wide, then freezes. 

      An almost claw-like hand is gripping the ledge, and reaction belated with shock, Illumi jumps back, breath caught in his throat. He feels his skirts, too long, get trapped beneath his feet, but he’s still stepping back, stumbling and ready for the fall with a little cry imprisoned in his chest, but his elbows are going to break it–

      As if the air turned to ice around him, in a split second, Illumi isn’t falling anymore. His eyes closed, he’s instead pulled closely against a solid chest, suspended diagonally by frigid hands around him. Unconsciously, he holds onto large biceps, and  _ somehow _ he  _ feels _ purple. Behind his eyelids, instead of darkness, he sees lavender, and his heartbeat feels as irregular as the spinning sensation in his head. 

      “How clumsy of you, Illumi,” purrs a voice, smooth and throaty, and Illumi’s eyes flicker open. 

      The silhouette of Hisoka is detailed, sharp and smiling like the time before, and something settles in Illumi’s chest. Parting his lips and tilting his chin forward, he snakes his hands around Hisoka’s neck and relishes in the pulse in his ears. 

      “I’m not clumsy,” he says instead of asking why Hisoka is in his room while it’s still daylight out, why Hisoka is in his room at  _ all.  _

      Hisoka smiles, jagged, and something feels different, more dangerous, but more compelling that way. Illumi lets Hisoka kiss him on the mouth this time, and closes his eyes to the burning sunset in favor of feeling Hisoka’s burning hands on his skin. 

****

      Illumi hadn't invited Hisoka to his bed, but the magician is there anyway. Illumi is too, had followed after Hisoka and curled up as if it were natural. Hisoka would call Illumi a fool if he said it wasn’t.

He's listening to Hisoka’s heartbeat beneath his solid ribcage, and Hisoka is toying his fingers through Illumi’s long dark hair where it splays over his arm and the sheets. Illumi traces meaningless shapes onto the plane of Hisoka’s chest, and asks,

“Why aren’t you stealing anymore?”

Vibrations rumble from Hisoka’s throat to Illumi’s ears when he laughs, as if it suffices as an answer.

Illumi can hear the night birds singing in the willows outside his window, can see the beams of the moon highlighting Hisoka’s face when he tilts his own up to glare.

Objectively, if Illumi thinks about it, Hisoka is very beautiful. Sloped nose, clear, almost ghostly complexion, piercing slanted eyes of golden-amber that don't tell the truth even if you as nicely, twice. He's strong, Illumi knows, he’s  _ felt _ that strength, occasion after occasion, and he's tall, tall enough to tower, though somehow he doesn't. Maybe that's just because Illumi is lying down with him more often than not, or he holds himself that way intentionally. 

But it’s none of those things that persuade Illumi to open his window every night, and let him in. Instead, it’s a raw sense of familiarity, and Illumi is getting lost in it, like he does every time ー until he thinks he hears Hisoka’s voice sound again.

“What?” Illumi breathes, letting Hisoka’s face come back into focus as he realizes he's been staring.

“I am stealing, just not from you,” Hisoka says, punctuating his sentence with a kiss to Illumi’s forehead. When Illumi frowns, Hisoka laughs, but Illumi can't stop thinking about  _ why _ Hisoka keeps coming back to him.

But suddenly he can't think at all, because Hisoka is pulling him from his mind as he slides out from beneath Illumi to poise over him instead, aligned.

ー

After months built on intimacy and trust, in that order, Illumi finds that he enjoys when Hisoka brushes his hair. It’s long, a sleek black,  _ beautiful _ he's always been told, but with that said, from the time it passed his chin, he's let no hands touch it but his own.

So, to sit between Hisoka’s knees on the rug, to let Hisoka run his fingers through the strands, to feel the knot of unease dissolve beneath those fingers, is a first.

      “You look beautiful,” Hisoka murmurs without even looking away from Illumi’s hair in his hands. His gaze is fixated, but Illumi looks to himself in the tall mirror on the wall.

      He sees himself, the same as ever. With thought, Illumi supposes he looks a bit like a maiden rather than a prince with fourteen years of specialized sword training under his belt. He’s pale, more-so beneath the moonlight, moonlight that he now associates solely with Hisoka, and his eyes are wide and blank as always, no matter what he’s thinking. His clothes, a dress by any name, hang loose, but expose his taut shoulders and cut down deep over his back. Hisoka said he likes the way it hugs him, likes more the way he can trace whispering fingers over the bare skin, so Illumi took to wearing it every night. 

      He looks the same as ever, but  _ something _ reminds him of a self he only remembers in fragmented memories and family paintings from more than a decade ago. Maybe it’s just the blooming marks splattered over his skin, the posture with which he sits against Hisoka, relaxed and  _ familiar _ , or the ever present blush that flowers over his chest and cheekbones when ever Hisoka comes around. 

      “Do you think we could ever meet outside my room?” Illumi asks, eyes sliding away from his own reflection to Hisoka’s, only to see him smiling. 

      “‘Llumi,” he sighs, and Illumi finds he still hasn’t gotten used to the slight lilt of a nickname Hisoka’s given him, “you’re the one who said we are to meet only in this room.”

      Illumi knows he said it, but he still frowns; Hisoka laughs to match.

      After a moment of almost silence, Hisoka continues,

      “I would love nothing more than to see you outside of this room.” Hisoka pauses the movement of his hands. “I bet you would look beautiful lain atop my lovely field of lilac.”

      Illumi didn’t know Hisoka gardened flowers. 

      “Why don’t you take me then?” he taunts in the most monotonous of voices. With a single finger, Hisoka brushes a strand of hair behind Illumi’s ear. 

      “To be caught with me is a world of hurt for you, my love,” Hisoka says, then leans down to gift a kiss across Illumi’s cheekbone. 

A rapture of knocks sounds clamorously from the outside of Illumi’s room, against the door, a jump sparks through Illumi’s nerves, and Hisoka rests a solid hand over his bare shoulder and rises. Illumi feels a certainty, dark and willing, radiating from him, it isn't purple now, it’s black, and Illumi whips around to latch onto him in what can't be anything else but quiet panic.

“Your Highness, may we enter? It is on the King’s orders,” a knight requests from the other side, muffled, but it doesn't sound much like a wish for permission.

Illumi scrambles somewhat to stand, brushing past Hisoka and bracing a backward hand against the latter’s abdomen in warning, as if Hisoka will listen to him even if it isn't something that he wants to do. Illumi still hopes he might.

“No!” he calls, too quickly, and he feels Hisoka tense through the air if not his hand. “I'm indecent.”

Something tells Illumi that the situation isn't resolved. A cold feeling bites at his neck and holds on tight. Anxiety whirls in his stomach like poison. His skin freezes like he’s in the whipping winds of the Northern winter. Hisoka steps silently in front of him, hand mimicking on Illumi where Illumi’s own had just been, and Illumi gets  déjà-vu so quickly it makes him dizzy enough to lean into Hisoka’s light touch.

      Illumi’s bedroom door bursts open, the crash of it against the stone wall piercing his ears, and around Hisoka, he watches glinting silver flood in like it’s spring. Silver and then _Silver_ , the head of his unrelenting father, and his heart stutters behind his sternum. The backmost, unbothered part of his mind notes just how severely Hisoka and Silva contrast each other.

Hisoka’s back is to him, and Silva must not have seen him yet, is glaring with the intensity of a wolf with two full moons for eyes, yet  _ still. _ Silva is cold, hard stone, harsh and towering always, sending roped arrows of tension all throughout the room, cracking the walls and the furniture and Illumi’s unbreakable skin. He’s regal and unforgiving, and his large calloused hands are on his heavy belt, inches from his sword, seconds away from splitting Illumi’s chest in two, but Hisoka–

Hisoka is unarmed. Hisoka is red but blue, and fiery but frigid. His clothes are thin, racy and black, but his hand is still on Illumi’s waist, holding him back and away from his own father. Standing in between the two. The amethyst is unfurling from his skin now in a smoke-like tangibility; Illumi wonders if the others can see it, too. Hisoka is secret and brave in the most malevolent of ways, he’s an earthquake but simultaneously the shelter that protects Illumi from the damage he creates. Hisoka is riot of self-contradictory chaos.

And Illumi is somewhere in between.

“It appears you’ve found me,” Hisoka says, breaking the silence that Illumi hadn't realized was blanketing the room.

“It appears that I have,” Silva replies, calmly, but Illumi knows better. He knows that Silva is fuming hot enough to melt the solid silver blood in his veins, and he's never wanted to hear his father’s voice less than he does now. Silva isn't looking at him, and somehow that tells him it’s worse; maybe it’s the color of Hisoka’s lipstick smeared just so faintly on the side of Illumi’s mouth. Illumi still doesn't move.

“Come without a fight, and you will live to see tomorrow,” Silva orders, and Illumi  _ knows _ that tone. “Tomorrow’s dawn, and nothing more.”

Illumi feels his nerves spike and Hisoka’s hand harden against him, but before he can make himself explicitly known, Hisoka speaks, as if one can just  _ do so _ before the  _ King _ .

“Ah, ah, not quite,” he reproaches, holding up a finger, and Illumi feels Silva’s shock cut into his own skin. “That is not what I want.”

Hisoka says it like he knew this would happen. Illumi certainly hadn't known. Silva narrows his eyes, and Illumi swallows painfully at the sound of his voice when he asks,

“And what is it that you want, sorcerer?”

Illumi hadn't expected it to come this far. He thought that Hisoka would be dead on the floor by now. Something in the atmosphere is telling him that Hisoka is holding back. But why would he do that?

“I’ll come quietly,” he begins, and Illumi senses the air saturate with that  _ danger _ , “if you swear that none of this will fall back onto the Prince.”

“Why, you littleー”

“Ah, ah,” Hisoka tuts again, and instinctively, Illumi twists hard fingers into the back of Hisoka’s tunic when every blade from every corner of his room arises to hover in mid-air, outlined with an aura of purple. “That is what I require.”

Silva makes a motion, one Illumi would recognize if he weren’t so frenzied, and suddenly Hisoka is being ripped from his grasp and shackled.

On an intuitive impulse, as Hisoka is bound and dragged to the doorway, Illumi snatches a levitating blade from the air before they collectively clatter to the ground, holding it before him and gliding forward. He feels the blue flames licking at the onyx of his irises, growing with every step, but no one moves.

“Father,” he murmurs lowly. He's seeing red, but it might be Hisoka.

“Illumi, do not take another step toward me.”

Silva’s words go in one ear and out the other. All he can feel, see, is the rage welling and bleeding out from his insides. His skirts drag across the floor, and his hair falls to one side as he tilts his head, but faintly, it feels as if it’s rising into the air.

And then he hears Hisoka’s voice.

“‘Llumi, darling, don't move.”

He melts. The blade falls from his hands, and he stumbles to the floor along with it, blood rushing in his ears. Hisoka grins at him from the doorway, sharp and sad but  _ somehow _ reassuring. Illumi feels it in his chest like a killing blow, and then Hisoka is gone. They’re all gone, and Illumi sinks farther to the floor and rests his cheek against the cold grey stone of it.

It feels like Hisoka’s chest, and Illumi knows that he  _ can't _ let this happen. He hasn't cried in years, not once in a single memory, but allows himself one tear as the moonlight washes over him like a sheet of ice.

ー

****

Illumi, for his temperament and for all the fight Hisoka put up, cannot find it within himself to stand by and let this happen. Let his father execute Hisoka.

     He knows Hisoka is a criminal, he just doesn't care, couldn’t care if he tried.

      The moon sits at high noon,and Illumi discards his night skirts in favor of his travel clothes. They’re ivy colored and lithe, but meant for battle nonetheless, and Illumi knows better than to ignore what they might encounter tonight.

      In the fleeting moment that he's bare, he catches a glimpse in the mirror, of his skin, of the purple marks on it in the shapes of fingerprints and teeth, but that's all he allows himself. They will not be the last marks left, because Hisoka will still have his head come dawn.

      When Illumi sneaks from his room, concealing weapons anywhere that someone won’t touch, the corridors are empty, emptier than he'd expected. Still, he moves briskly, silently down the tunnel-like lengths, and the paintings on the wall, of legends and past royals, seem to follow his every step with piercing eyes. They’re condemning him, but he doesn't  _ care. _

      He knows full well where the dungeons are. Too many times was he punished for wandering into their depths and asking criminals questions through the bars. He supposes this will hardly be different in essence. Round the corner and dropping from the final flight of stairs, Illumi extracts a needle from its sheath of a case, and with natural skill and years of practice behind him and his target in sight, he slides it, lightning fast, into the exposed neck of the knight stationed so clearly to keep him out. He does it three times, three accounts, three thuds to the stone floor.

      And he sees Hisoka chained to the same floor in the middle of the cell, glowing. He almost doesn't make it to the bars without falling to his knees.

      “Hisoka,” he breathes, slipping long fingers through the space in between the thin columns of iron. His hair falls around him; he must have forgotten to tie it up, and the chaos of the moment still rings in his ears.

      “Don't,” Hisoka says sharply, “don't touch me. You can't.”

      “Why?” Illumi asks as he retracts his hand, but he can't seem to pull himself away completely, like if he does Hisoka will vanish before him.

      “They’ll know,” Hisoka warns, jangling his chains, and Illumi thinks he sees Hisoka’s aura flare of its own accord. Like he doesn't have control of it.

      “They’re unconscious, Hisoka,” he tries to reason, but Hisoka doesn't budge. “I took them out by their pressure points, they can't wake up without a hit to the opposite one.”

      “Not those imbeciles,” Hisoka says, and looks up at the ceiling. Silva. Illumi can't handle the darkness everyone is forcing himself under, and he lets out the frustration on a sigh that's too loud.

      “Hisoka, just  _ tell _ me what you  _ did _ ,” he says. He wouldn’t say he's begging, but if that's what it would take, then Illumi is already on his knees. Hisoka smiles without a trace of mirth. Instead it looks like  _ worry _ , and Illumi doesn't like that look on him; it doesn't mesh.

      “Illumi, you know I'm a criminal. Always have been, always will be.”

      “I  _ know _ , and I don't  _ care _ ,” Illumi blurts, and suddenly feels foolish. He looks down at his knees, but he can't stop himself from saying, “Anyone is better than he is.”

      Hisoka holds a silence, and Illumi wants to reach out and touch him.

      “Are you sure you want to know?”

      Illumi nods, and he can feel Hisoka coming to protect him like a barrier from the danger of himself and all the crimes that he bares willingly on his sleeve. But Illumi doesn't want to be protected, not from Hisoka, not ever.

      “What do you know?” Hisoka asks. Illumi almost tell him to just  _ tell me _ , but doesn't.

      “You’re a thief.” Illumi looks slowly to meet Hisoka’s eyes, though in the dark they look back, and Illumi wants nothing more than to drown in them right then. Hisoka nods to him.

      “And I'm a murderer,” he says, and what surprises Illumi is the steadiness of his own heart. It’s just the same as it was before Hisoka had said it, because he just doesn't  _ care. _

      “Okay,” he whispers, and across Hisoka’s face curls the gentlest of smiles. It looks almost unnatural. 

      “Do you know why I was looking for you?” Hisoka asks him.

      Illumi knows Hisoka isn't like his hundreds of other suitors. Hisoka is a criminal, a sorcerer, and he doesn't want Illumi as a trophy, as pearly and beautiful as he is. But still, he wants Hisoka to tell him why. He shakes his head. 

      “Look at me. Trust me, and watch.”

      Illumi does as he says. He watches Hisoka through the bars, and every sense of uncertainty melts into a puddle on the floor. The cell containing Hisoka is alight with a glow, a different color than Illumi has ever seen emanate from the magician before. He watches as, from the roots, Hisoka’s red hair lightens and fades and shifts into a new color. In seconds, a silvery, almost sea-like blue curls around Hisoka’s jaw, down the nape of his neck, and Illumi knows exactly who he is. His features are almost completely different, unrecognizable to the pits of Illumi’s elusive childhood memories, but Illumi remembers him.

      “It’s you,” Illumi breathes, and Hisoka smiles the softest smile that's ever fallen upon his lips.

      “You remember,” Hisoka says, “Yes, it’s me, darling.” 

      The relief is almost a part of Hisoka’s face, an expression so abundant it shimmers.

      Flickering flashbacks of childish hands around his shoulders in the heat of the training grounds, directing him to  _ stay like that _ , around the wood of his bow, race through Illumi’s mind like silently shattering glass. A voice bluntly telling him he should keep his hair long, because  _ it looks pretty like that _ , echoes in his ears. A memory of rags behind the bushes, waiting for him to come out, after his father released him each day, emerges repetitively. Hisoka is  _ the boy _ , the one Illumi remembered but couldn’t quite place. Maybe his father had a part in the reason he'd forgotten, but it doesn't matter much to him anymore. Hisoka is the boy that changed his life,  _ made  _ his life when they’d been just children, and Hisoka is the man before him that's found him again after ten blurry years, and Illumi wants to kiss him.

      “We have to get out of here,” Illumi says like the decision is simple. To him, it  _ is _ simple. 

      “We can't do that, dear,” Hisoka says, still smiling, but Illumi can't understand just how he's been able to hold it this long. “You’ll never see the light of day again if they catch us.”

      But Illumi won’t take that. Hisoka has spent  _ all _ this time, finding him and  _ keeping _ him, and Illumi is not willing to give  _ any _ of him up. Defiance boils in his chest, directed toward whom exactly he isn't sure, but he feels the fire when it reaches his eyes. It bleeds out and down, burns the tips of his fingers and the rims of his eyes, and as he whirls around, his heart is racing.

      “‘Llumi, be sure of the decision you’re about to make.”

      Illumi is sure. He finds the keys in the pocket of an unconscious guard, but he doesn't hear the metallic jingle when he jams the end of the key into the lock of the cell. Hisoka glows almost too bright, aura still flaring purple when Illumi rushes into the cell.

      “Remember, don't touch me until they’re off,” Hisoka warns him quietly, motioning his handcuffs.

     As he attempts to find the right key, Illumi knows he's burning, shaking. This is the most emotion he’s felt  _ ever _ , he's overcome with it, and it’s trembling hot beneath his skin, wracking his bones and sending waves of  _ feeling _ through his mind. But Hisoka is calm beside him. For all the chaos he brings, Hisoka is calm and  _ solid _ , and Illumi needs him more than he's ever needed anyone, anything else.

      He knows that when the metal of the handcuffs clicks, drops to the ground, and when Hisoka grabs his face with two hands and presses the fiercest of kisses to Illumi’s lips.

      He knows when Hisoka follows him out the dungeon window and into the horizon of the new morning’s sun, their new morning, as tainted as it may be.

****

      It’s some time around midday, and they’re somewhere fighting through a forest of deep green when Hisoka asks,

      “Are you sure about this, lovely?”

      And Illumi wants to say,  _ how could I be unsure when you sound that way, talking to me? _

      “Yes,” he says instead, and feels Hisoka’s fingers ghost his waist.

      “You can always go back if you want,” Hisoka tells him. “I’ll be fine if you want to go.”

      Illumi turns around to face him, keeps walking. Hisoka looks beautiful in the dappled light beneath the trees, beautiful and blue.

      “I don't want to go back, I want toー”

      The ground shifts a bit then, a tree root beneath his step that he hadn't been watching, and he's prepared to land his fall, when suddenly he doesn't have to, because Hisoka’s hands reach out and wrap around him. Still, he's close to Hisoka now, and notices there are pure golden ripples in the amber of his eyes.

      “Hisoka, I’m sure about you.”

**Author's Note:**

> soooo you've reached the end. I hope you enjoyed everything, or at least managed to finish! if you did like it, remember the best thing a writer can receive is commentary and feedback, so please try to comment and leave a kudos! thank you again for reading, and if for whatever reason you'd like to reach me, im available at rozvelona !


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